Monday, May 16, 2011
"Drunken on Faith"
two verona pieces
one red
one black
measure a board
of opal-flamed squares,
wax the new rules
weaved in saltire moans
and
utter thin words
sharpened in
gasps.
too young for dreams
and too old for play
they push away the sun
after kissing his lips.
radiant hands,
one loose
one searching,
the perfect poles
of a tender sweat
rush to imbibe
breath-sipped wine.
drunken on faith,
the canon of Blood,
they rush to
unite
spirit and
love,
and delay
the cleaving
of
eye from eye
T. Wahl - 2010
one red
one black
measure a board
of opal-flamed squares,
wax the new rules
weaved in saltire moans
and
utter thin words
sharpened in
gasps.
too young for dreams
and too old for play
they push away the sun
after kissing his lips.
radiant hands,
one loose
one searching,
the perfect poles
of a tender sweat
rush to imbibe
breath-sipped wine.
drunken on faith,
the canon of Blood,
they rush to
unite
spirit and
love,
and delay
the cleaving
of
eye from eye
T. Wahl - 2010
"Edges"
I skated the edges,
none of which
were edges,
of course.
I excised embarrassed shapes
even the anointed
couldn't name.
Burnt paper tracings of memory,
and bleached negatives
were run through a fevered wash
and became slippery
finger textures,
and knowingness
became a tongue.
Unconstant lines were older than Ur
and dabs of nervous skipping
stared desperately
at each other.
Would hungry birds peck
at this trickery,
so real,
so real that
small children would point,
and try all their wording?
Always a re-line,
and,
always a re-see,
my blurry eyes squinting
at the jigsawns of life
and
the nacre of
layered limbs.
t. wahl -2010
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